


Strangers in the Night

by 1000excuses



Category: Kong: Skull Island (2017), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Consensual Sex, M/M, Missions Gone Wrong, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 04:48:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10209950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1000excuses/pseuds/1000excuses
Summary: Conrad is hired by the KGB to retrieve a missing agent from behind enemy lines.





	

Illya wakes from a fitful doze to the sound of his door being kicked in. He sits up, because that is all he can do, and stares at the man silhouetted in the wreckage of the doorway. He is lean in his tactical gear, which is military grade but bears no uniform patches, and his pistol is easy in his grip. Once he seems certain that Illya is not about to shoot him for his intrusion, he lowers his weapon and shoulders his pack off onto the floor. 

He advances cautiously across the dusty cabin, eyes never leaving Illya, his mouth set in a thin, grim line as though he is waiting for the other shoe to drop. Illya, who has been stuck here for three days, knows that this is the worst it will get, and so he speaks first. “You are not KGB,” he points out accusingly in Russian, though he is far from certain of that fact. Every line of the stranger’s posture says special forces of some kind or another, and the fact that he has not put a bullet through Illya’s eye says that he is a ally of some kind or another. 

“No, I’m not,” the man admits in clipped British English. “They are paying me a great deal to retrieve you for them, though.” He takes a knee a few paces from Illya, eying the awkward posture of his ankle. “What happened?”

Illya ignores the concern. “They are paying you?” he repeats incredulously. “KGB is paying British agent to retrieve me?”

“I’m not a British agent. I’m a freelancer, and yes, they are. The Kremlin is anxious to hold onto you, apparently.” Without looking away, the man reaches for his pack and rummages in it, producing a ration bar which he slides across the floor to Illya. “My name is Conrad. James Conrad.”

Illya eyes him mutinously as he extends his hand. He hasn’t eaten in three days, though, so even the ration bar looks tempting. Hunger wars with good sense for a moment before he snatches it up and tears the wrapper open. “Conrad,” he says, after he’s chewed and swallowed twice. “You look like British agent.”

“I used to be,” Conrad admits, a flush rising high on his sharp cheekbones. “Captain, SAS. No more.” And he shuts his mouth firmly in favor of offering Illya his canteen.

Illya is not as thirsty as he is hungry, so he takes it but does not drink. It is difficult to know how to categorize this man, but the state of his ankle makes resisting a difficult prospect. He shifts, pulls his good leg up, and finally takes a slow swallow of clean water. “If I could walk, I would have been out of here already.” 

Conrad nods. “I know, and they’d have gotten you out of here by now if they’d been able to find you. You hide your tracks well for a man who can barely walk.”

“I can walk,” Illya corrects him firmly, though he does not attempt to prove it. 

“You shouldn’t, not if you don’t want to do permanent damage.” Conrad retrieves what could not be anything but a first aid kit from his pack and opens it, producing a roll of bandage. “Fortunately, it doesn’t look broken.”

“It is not broken,” Illya says dismissively. He has had enough training to recognize that, and he knows that he would be in far more pain if he’d actually snapped any bones in his fall.

“Good.” Long fingers slip his boot off and then peel off the filthy sock beneath, revealing pale skin mottled with angry purple bruises. Conrad draws in a soft breath of sympathy through his teeth and begins rolling up Illya’s trouser leg so he has room to work. “Are you going to tell me what happened, or are we going to keep this strictly business?”

“Business,” Illya mutters through gritted teeth and lies back, determined not to betray any pain through voice or expression. The effort of English is compounding his exhaustion, and he knows that his safety is far from sure even now.

“Вы предпочитаете говорить по-русски?” The words are halting, but Conrad’s accent isn’t terrible. “I know a little. Had some classes a long time ago. I’m not bad at languages.”

“You are bad at Russian,” Illya informs him, but it is a relief to continue in his mother tongue. “I understand English well enough.”

Cool fingers lift his heel gently and stroke the swollen skin above it. “Bad sprain you’ve got here. Too bad we haven’t got any ice. This might help, though. Let’s get it up.” Illya allows his calf to be propped up on Conrad’s thigh, warm even through the thick cloth of his trousers. The warmest thing Illya has felt in a long time. 

“I hope you covered your tracks here,” he says after a hard swallow. “If we are both found and shot, you will not get your fee.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” Conrad reassures him, patting the inside of Illya’s thigh before he sets to work “I know my business. We’ll be safe here tonight, and in the morning I’ll call a copter to come and extract you. They’ve got one standing by.”

This is as much a relief to Illya as the gentle pressure of the bandage on his battered ankle. He hasn’t failed in his mission, not completely. The papers he’d been instructed to retrieve are still tucked safely inside his shirt, and now he has a way to get them back to his superiors. Cause to rest a fraction easier. “Thank you,” he says roughly, because he is not a beast. His mother raised him with manners, and this man is very likely saving his life as well as his reputation.

“Oh, the pleasure’s mine.” The warmth in Conrad’s voice makes Illya’s eyes snap up to his face, where his blue gaze is warm, too. He pats Illya’s thigh again. “You’re a very fine specimen, you know, Kuryakin. Anything I can do to take your mind off all this for a bit?”

Illya stares at him, wondering what his aim is in this. “Did they pay you for that, too?” He highly doubts that the KGB did any such thing. His superiors would do much more than disapprove if they knew. 

Conrad shakes his head, a small smile playing over his thin lips. “They don’t have to. You’re my kind of man, you know. Do I suit you?”

Illya allows himself a moment to consider that. Men have caught his eye in the past, but he’s rarely had an opportunity to do more than hide a longing gaze. Conrad, with his long legs and trim sprinter’s build, would certainly have induced some longing and perhaps been the subject of thought during some furtive pleasure in the shower later. Illya nods. “Take off your shirt and let me see.”

There is a gleam of triumph in Conrad’s eyes as he shrugs off his jacket and pulls his shirt over his head, tousling his reddish curls and revealing a taut stomach and smoothly muscled shoulders. “Good enough for you?” he asks smugly, going back to caressing Illya’s thigh higher and higher until he’s stroking perilously close to Illya’s now aching cock. 

“Very good,” Illya admits, reaching down to work his belt open and pop the button of his trousers. 

“Is that an invitation?” Conrad asks, as though he wants to be certain even though he is helping with Illya’s fly and shorts. 

“It will be an order if you don’t hurry.” Illya sighs as his rapidly stiffening cock bobs free from its confines, to Conrad’s evident approval.

“Yes, sir,” he murmurs, lifting Illya’s leg up onto his shoulder as he bends his head to mouth gently at the glistening head. He takes his time working down the length of it, and Illya waits patiently, polite enough not to thrust up and choke him. He knows he is larger than most men, and for all his confidence Conrad seems wary, as well. Perhaps he thought his proposition might be badly received.

It has been years since anyone has done this for Illya, though, and he can’t keep back a heartfelt groan as he nudges against the back of Conrad’s throat and feels him swallow gamely, continuing to lick shallow strokes along the underside. This is not his first time offering his mouth to another.

Illya rolls his shoulders and then his hips cautiously, and he feels the warm, wet heat convulse around him as Conrad swallows. He does it again, and Illya bucks. When the convulsive swallowing becomes choking in earnest, Illya reaches down to push gently at Conrad’s cheek. “Easy. Steady.” English is more difficult to manage than usual, but it does not sit well with Illya to have a man choke himself for another’s pleasure. 

After a moment Conrad pulls back and looks up at him with spit-slick lips, shaking his head. “I don’t mind it.” The rawness in his voice makes Illya’s stomach turn over a little, and his cock twitches. “Let me. Return the favour someday, if you like.” 

Illya thinks that it is highly unlikely that their paths will ever cross another day, and then he can’t think at all as Conrad dives back down and begins bobbing tight, wet strokes up and down, letting Illya bottom out each time. It is a maddening rhythm, one that makes Illya writhe and clench his palms against the rough wood floor. “Soon,” he manages, when he is far gone, the clenching low in his belly nigh overpowering. The words might be in English or Russian, he doesn’t know, but Conrad nods and speeds up a little to urge Illya over the edge. Illya falls like a dive into a warm ocean, pleasure washing over him in licking waves. 

He comes back to himself when he feels his leg set carefully down and hears what is unmistakably the sound of spitting in the corner. He manages a grateful groan as Conrad settles beside him and pats his shoulder. “Get some sleep,” comes the voice from above him, and sleep seems so welcome, especially with the solid warmth beside him. Illya has slept in worse places with worse men. A few hours now seem safe and easy. His ankle is a distant ache now instead of the nagging throb that it has been for days. There is nothing in him that wants to move and everything that wants to lean against the man beside him and close his eyes.

\--

Dawn through the dirty skylight wakes Illya, and he lies silently while the events of the night before come back to him. Conrad is still next to him, his posture relaxed but not resting. “You did not sleep?” Illya asks quietly after a moment.

“Someone has to keep watch.” His voice comes lightly, but Illya can hear the fatigue and lingering rasp of a sore throat. “You were out like a light.”

“Thank you,” Illya offers, and two little words in English seem insufficient to compass everything, so he thanks him again in Russian and turns his head so Conrad can see that he is earnest. 

“Pleasure’s mine.” There are lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth and scars on his chest, old ones and new. Illya knows that in another time, he might have added to them, but not now. Not here.

“If you are ever in Moscow—“ he begins, and then stops, because they both know that Conrad will never be in Moscow under pleasant circumstances and that they could not touch each other there.

“I found you once,” he tells Illya. “I can find you again, if I like.” He pats Illya’s thigh, and Illya covers his hand to squeeze it. 

“Please. Yes. So I can return the favour.” He decides to save thinking of it until he is alone, something to take out and turn over in his mind: a faint, wonderful hope. 

“Of course.” Conrad makes it sound like the easiest and most natural thing in the world, as though he’s completely satisfied that it will happen. 

“You radioed?” Illya asks, after the sun has climbed higher, and he feels the shake of the head.

“Should I?” But Conrad is already reaching for his pack. Illya gathers up his shirt and jacket and passes them over after the call, watching as Conrad stands and slips back into them, memorizing the way he moves. He lets himself be hauled up, testing the weight on his bad ankle carefully. It will bear enough to limp over to his boot and pull it on. He leans against the wall to lace it up, and when he finishes, he finds Conrad watching him, eyes warm again. “You’d better not be limping the next time I see you.”

“Yes, sir,” Illya says, because his stomach has turned over in that way again, and they stand looking hungrily at each other until they hear the sounds of the helicopter outside. Conrad goes out first to wave them in, and Illya follows carefully. 

Once they’re through the narrow doorway, Conrad ducks under his arm to support him, letting Illya lean. Illya does his best not to look too grateful as he’s handed into the bay and straps himself in. Conrad doesn’t follow, just steps back and shields his eyes as they lift off. Illya raises his hand and sees it answered, knowing this will not be the last time.


End file.
